Walk The Line
by Keira-House M.D
Summary: It is a delicate balance, what is between them, skirting the line without ever completely crossing it. But how far can they really go and will the day come when it all collapses around them? Victoria/Melbourne


**Disclaimer:** **I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria.**

* * *

It is a delicate balance, what is between them, skirting the line without ever completely crossing it.

After Brocket Hall they should both take a step back.

But they do not. If anything they move closer.

Because it does not matter how much he talks around the subject, how much he insists that she cannot give him her heart and how much he tries to persuade her to consider Prince Albert – in the end they both know that she loves him and he loves her.

* * *

They sit side by side working on her papers.

There is news of the princes' voyage – they are due to land in two days.

"Let the Coburgs come," he tells her.

She looks at him, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue. But his expression stops her from rebuking him – he looks tired and sad, and she knows that he is only saying what he believes he should, only trying to do what he thinks is right.

"They have not been invited," she says, "am I to welcome men who consider it right to visit England on the invitation of a foreign king and with no permission from myself?"

She waits for one of his witty retorts, for him to laugh and say she should have her uncle sent straight to the Tower for his impertinence. But Lord M is silent, still weary.

She takes his hand under the table and he does not stop her.

They both try not to think about what is coming.

* * *

Melbourne listens, entranced, as the Queen plays the piano with such focus and skill. He is not usually much interested in music, though he does enjoy Mozart, but he is never anything but alert when the Queen plays. She puts so much of her own vitality into the music and he feels like it gives her playing something every other performance seems to lack.

He looks away from her only when he hears the sound of heavy footsteps. He and the rest of the audience stand as Prince Albert and Prince Ernest enter the room.

King Leopold and the Duchess of Kent smile.

Melbourne sighs. So it begins.

But the Queen keeps on playing, apparently not noticing the arrival of her cousins.

Prince Albert moves towards the piano and turns the page of the Queen's music book. She finally looks up.

"Victoria."

Melbourne waits for her to reply to the prince, waits to spot the spark of interest he is sure will arise.

But she surprises him.

"Albert," she says, almost coldly.

And then she turns right back to her music.

He cannot help the smile that stretches across his face.

The Queen finishes her playing and when the applause has stopped she rises from the piano bench and moves towards Melbourne rather than the princes.

He panics a little – it is such an obvious snub, after all – but he cannot be really angry with her.

"Perhaps you ought to greet the princes," he suggests.

"They can wait, Lord M," she says sharply, "it was really quite rude of them to enter while I was in the middle of playing, and then for Albert to interrupt and surprise me like that! They ought to have waited until I was finished and then been announced."

Melbourne thinks of the many times he has entered the Queen's study unannounced without any such censure but wisely decides not to mention that. Instead he tries to improve the queen's mood.

"You played very well tonight, Ma'am."

She beams at him, "and you did not fall asleep, Lord M – a high compliment indeed."

He laughs and feels King Leopold's stern gaze upon him.

The Queen takes note of her uncle's hostility and sighs, "I suppose I must greet the princes before Uncle Leopold comes to scold me. But you must not leave, Lord M, I have much to speak with you about."

She squeezes his hands affectionately and then walks over to her cousins, greeting them in a polite but not overly friendly manner.

He notices King Leopold coming towards him and he hurries over to begin a conversation with Emma Portman – he has no desire to have another discussion with the Queen's uncle about how he should persuade her to consider Prince Albert.

* * *

"What a surprise to see you, Albert, Ernest," says Victoria, "I am sure I was not expecting you at all, for your arrival has quite anticipated any invitation I was considering offering to you both."

Her words are studiously polite but both princes flinch at her cool reception and duck their heads in an embarrassed fashion.

"We do apologise, Cousin Victoria," says Ernest.

"I am quite sure the blame does not lie completely with you," Victoria glances in the direction of her uncle, "I am only sorry that I did not have more notice of your arrival. Our best guest rooms are currently undergoing intensive redecoration so you will miss out on our best views."

She looks quite serious but on closer examination there is a slightly playful smirk on her face that suggests that the decorating coinciding with the princes' visit is not entirely coincidental – perhaps it is petty for a Queen but she cannot help herself from finding some subtle way to express her displeasure.

Melbourne and Emma, close enough to hear the Queen's words, both begin coughing to cover their smiles.

* * *

The Queen speaks kindly to the princes but there is an aloofness in her behaviour borne of the fact that they have come to England without her invitation and clearly on her uncle's orders in order to try and persuade her into marriage with Albert.

Perhaps it is not their fault, for they are royal but impoverished and rely on ambitious uncle Leopold for hope of advancement … but she will not offer false hope and will not be taken in by flatteries.

Now she and Melbourne are alone, quiet but content in each other's company.

Melbourne thinks Leopold and Albert will not forgive him any time soon for agreeing to speak privately with the Queen before she retires, thus cutting short Albert and Ernest's time with their royal cousin and clearly showing whose company the young Queen prefers.

He finds he cannot much care. He has counselled the Queen to give the prince a chance because he wants to ensure her happiness and safety, but he cannot command her and if she does not wish to speak with Albert or Ernest then he will not force the issue.

"How do you find the princes?" he asks curiously.

"They are amiable enough," she admits, "but I do not wish to marry either of them."

"You do not know them, Ma'am," he reminds her, "not yet. Perhaps in time you may change your mind."

 _May come to love Albert_ , he thinks to himself, though he cannot bring himself to voice the thought out loud.

"No, I do not think I will."

She says it softly, but decisively too. And he wants to believe her, wants to believe that this connection between them will not be interrupted by the Coburg princes.

But his life has made him sceptical even if the Queen's presence pushes his cynicism into the background. He does not want to get his hopes up, not about this.

* * *

" _You play very well, Cousin. But I believe you do not practice enough. It is necessary to play for at least one hour each day."_

" _A queen does not have time for scales every day."_

" _Only for card games."_

The Queen stiffens almost imperceptibly at Prince Albert's words but Melbourne still notices – he watches her too much not to.

The prince appears to be unaware of his rudeness or its effect on the Queen. Only Melbourne seems to realise that she laughs a little louder and talks a bit faster during their card game to cover her hurt.

She retires early. He gets up to follow, not even bothering to offer any excuse beyond a cursory goodbye. Those present know well enough that he will follow the Queen.

No one bothers to try and stop him, though they might wish to. They all know the Queen will not accept being kept apart from her Lord M.

* * *

He finds her in her sitting room, tears trickling down her face.

He kneels in front of her, lifts his hand to wipe away her tears and then takes her hands in his.

"Am I really as frivolous as the prince thinks?"

"No," he replies vehemently, "Ma'am, you are hardworking and strong and courageous. If Prince Albert does not see that then it is his own loss."

She looks at him with damp but brightened eyes, "you always know the right thing to say, Lord M."

"I speak only the truth, Ma'am," he insists.

She smiles and then, almost impulsively, leans forward to press her lips quickly to his.

In his shock he almost topples backwards, but he saves his dignity and steadies himself before gazing at the nervous face in front of him.

He kisses her back.

It feels wonderful. Like the sun has come out, like the very best of days.

His hands let go of hers and move to cradle her face gently as he continues to kiss her.

She is a bit unsure and tentative at first but she is soon as enthusiastic as he is. It is a bit of a clumsy kiss but he does not mind in the least.

Because it is with the woman he adores, who melts against him like they are made for each other.

When they break apart they are both flushed and glassy-eyed. She still looks beautiful, of course.

He does not think of the dangerous game they are playing. How can he when she is here with him and it all feels so right?

"You feel it to?"

He looks up at her with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

"Completeness," she clarifies.

He nods, presses kisses to her cheeks, her hands, her lips.

"Completeness," he agrees.

* * *

The next day they do not speak of what has passed between them, of the kisses that have haunted both of their dreams.

They know the risk in actually speaking of it out loud and they both wish to enjoy the remembrance of their embraces without the worry of reality for a little while longer.

So they go through her boxes and go out to ride as usual. They talk and laugh as they always do.

But there is something else there now, something that the two of them can feel even if no one else can see it.

A touch here, a glance there.

A longing that nearly consumes them.

* * *

Victoria does not see Albert coming up behind her.

She sees only Lord M in front of her, thinks only of the flower he has sent that she now wears close to her heart, and of those kisses they have recently shared.

"Will you dance with me?" she asks.

"I would be honoured, Ma'am."

They twirl around the floor and she is happy, so happy.

Their proximity is all propriety but their looks are heavy with meaning and deeper feelings and longing.

"What kind of flower is it?" she asks him as they waltz.

"A gardenia, Ma'am."

She looks up at him under her lashes, "what does it mean?"

He clears his throat, looks nervous for a moment, but they know each other so well and he has always tried to be honest with her.

"They have many meanings, Ma'am. Protection, friendship, hope, trust … a secret love."

He almost whispers the last words but she hears all the same. She looks at him, softly and with a smile that is a little sad.

A secret love – how appropriate for the two of them.

The waltz finishes but she keeps her hands in his.

In this moment he wants to kiss her again so badly, despite the crowd.

She looks so lovely, flushed pink with the exertion of dancing and with that lovely smile.

Emma coughs loudly from behind them. They break eye contact and step apart.

He leaves early, his mind a blur and the memory of her hands in his repeating on a loop in his head. They have been a little too indiscreet this evening – he notices Prince Albert's glares and Prince Ernest's curiosity – and he does not wish to cause further gossip.

It is folly to try and continue on with the Queen as they were, even if she does show no interest in Prince Albert.

He should stop, and put distance between them.

But he knows he will not, not unless she asks it of him.

She is in his soul now, buried into the corners of his heart he thought were forever closed off.

He is too far gone to turn back now.

He only hopes that it does not cost them both everything.

* * *

King Leopold puts up a good fight in his attempt to unite his niece and nephew in marriage.

He pushes and hints and cajoles all in vain.

The Queen will not have it. She will not have Albert.

Albert accepts it long before Leopold does, sees what his uncle stubbornly refuses to recognise.

Victoria will not be forced into any marriage with a man she does not love.

The Coburgs stay for two months before Albert's insistence on leaving – and escaping the humiliating situation of trying to woo a woman who will not have him – wins out against Leopold's stubbornness.

Victoria watches them leave with some sadness as to the loss of Ernest's lively company and Albert's musical talents but no real regret.

* * *

William finds that their first kiss and all the kisses that have followed, all the hands clasped together and the brushing of fingers against bare skin, have opened the floodgates.

Try as he might he can't push his feelings back in once he's let them out. He spent almost two and a half years keeping her at a distance but one kiss undoes him completely.

He thinks of her in his head as a woman far more often than he remembers she is also his Queen.

It is dangerous, so very dangerous.

When he is awake he has more control.

Not perfect control, not when it comes to her, but enough to remember that there are things he cannot and should not do with her no matter what their desires might be.

But when he sleeps …

When he sleeps he dreams of soft, bare skin and unbound hair. Of unlacing her corset and the kind of breathy sighs she might make if he ran a finger down her spine.

The sort of dreams that mean he wakes aroused and frustrated, knowing that no dalliance he might make will ever fully satisfy the ache inside him that yearns only for her.

He is a fool moving ever closer to crossing that invisible line that separates bad sense from treasonous acts.

But he will not stop. Because her smile is sunshine to him, her laughter infectious and her presence a renewing influence.

He is tired and worn from years of drama, both personal and political.

And he just wants to be happy with her while it lasts.

* * *

Victoria dreams too, though her dreams are more innocent, for she knows little about the intimacies that can go on between a man and woman.

So many nights she drifts off to sleep to imagine them dancing together the way she wishes they could every night.

He holds her close and she feels safe and secure in his arms. They talk and laugh and there is no furtive glancing around them to be sure that they are not being too closely watched by the judgemental audience that is her court.

Her dreams reflect her simplest desire – to be able to show her affection and love for Lord M without scorn or danger.

Sometimes she even dreams of a wedding. And she wants _that_ dream so much that it hurts.

* * *

William thinks he is far too old for a secret romance.

Yet that is exactly what he and the Queen are engaged in.

He does not think it can be called a courtship. It is certainly not public, as the courtship of the Queen should be, and no matter either of their inclinations he cannot see how they will ever be allowed to marry, which of course is the logical end to a successful courtship.

Secret at least sounds better than illicit or treasonous, which he admits might also be used to describe what is between himself and the Queen (certainly by some of those damn Tories).

He would like to say he is usually far too sensible for this sort of thing but the disaster that was his marriage to Caro, as well as the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his friendship with Mrs Norton and the court case that followed, remind him of his past follies.

This is different, though. He was fond of Mrs Norton but he never wanted more than friendship with her. And as for Caro, well in hindsight it was a mistake to marry her – he did love her for a long time but there was a madness in her that ruined them both. No, he cannot compare the Queen … Victoria … with the mistakes of his past.

But he knows what the cost would probably be if they wanted to be open about their feelings, knows how likely it is that they would both lose everything.

And he would not be much hurt by the end of his career in politics. It is mostly through accident and luck that he has risen so far, and for him politics is now more about combatting ennui and the joys of helping the Queen to learn and spending time with her. If he loses his place in government but still has her by his side then he would consider it of little loss.

The Queen, though. How can he be the reason for her to be apart from everything she has ever known? He does not want to be resented or despised if she comes to regret her decision. And she is such a magnificent Queen – perhaps it is his own partiality speaking but he believes he has never seen such dignity and grace as he does in her person – she is young and sometimes rash but no one can deny her regal aura or how much she tries to be a good queen … so how can he ask her to risk losing the crown she wears so well for him?

He cannot. He will not.

So they are doomed to this sort of ghost marriage – love and fidelity and monogamy and friendship and understanding and trust … all without ever being able to express their feelings in those most physical ways, nor to allow the public to know the truth.

He will take it, though, for it is more than he ever hoped and certainly enough for him to be happier than he has been in a long time.

However, the day is close now. The day when he will no longer be Prime Minister. It is practically decided and he does not know how to break it to the Queen. She knows, deep down, that it is coming but it is something they try hard not to speak of – she stubbornly refuses to accept it and he, well he has never liked to linger on unpleasant truths.

They will not be able to carry on as they are now.

He does not know what they will do. Will this break them? Will it make them stronger? Or will it make them careless, put them in danger now they do not have the shield of daily private audiences with actual political purpose to keep the gossip at bay?

William knows a lot of things. He has read more books on history and politics and philosophy than almost anyone he is acquainted with, can toss out Latin and Greek quotes with barely a second thought. But he does not know what is going to happen now.

It is uncharted waters and he only hopes they both make it to shore without drowning.

* * *

Things are not going well for Lord M's government.

He tries to shield her from the truth, tries not to let her see his exhaustion as he attempts to hold his party together. She knows him too well, though, and she sees the dark circles under his eyes, notices the harried look he often wears and that he falls asleep more and more often when he spends the evening at the palace.

She confronts him, but not about the government's stability – instead she tells him to get more sleep and take better care of himself because what will she do without him?

"We cannot hold on for much longer, Ma'am," he admits to her.

She squeezes his hand. She does not want to let him go.

"It is time," he tells her, "no one ever expected this ministry to last … _I_ never expected it. I am still constantly surprised that I have been Prime Minister for so long. But it cannot last, will not last."

"What will I do?"

"Sir Robert Peel is a good man, a talented politician."

"He is not you. No one is quite like you, Lord M."

"You no longer need me, Ma'am."

"No, Lord M, you are wrong. I will _always_ need you."

Not for politics, not even much for navigating court. She needs him for the part of her that is Victoria and not the Queen. She needs him to help her believe in herself, to support her with no ulterior motives, to make her laugh and smile even when it feels that almost the whole world is against her.

She needs him. But, more importantly, she _wants_ him.

* * *

As Lord M's government moves ever close towards collapse, so Victoria clings tighter to him.

This is not like last time, she knows. She will not be able to keep him no matter how many clever schemes she concocts.

Time is hurrying by and she is hurtling towards the end of this part of her life. Lord M will no longer be her Prime Minister and she knows she will lose many of her ladies – Harriet for sure and probably Emma too, which grieves her greatly.

So she tries to hold on to the familiar and to keep Lord M close.

She asks him to stay the night or be a member of the party to visit Windsor. She draws out their meetings with questions they are both aware she already knows the answer to. She learns all about the situation in Ireland in far more detail than she will ever need because she asks him to explain it to her just so she can hear him talk in his clever, amusing way for a bit longer.

She is sure he knows what she is doing, yet he allows it all with no censure, just a sad, understanding smile that lets her know that while he may be less demonstrative about it, he is also upset by the prospect of their upcoming separation.

When he kisses her now there is a hint of desperation in his embrace that she is unused to. Lord M is usually so self-assured and comfortable in her presence that it makes her quite uneasy to see him unbalanced, though she does enjoy the clear evidence that her feelings for him are certainly requited.

Neither of them talk about what will happen when the inevitable day arrives that Lord M must leave his post as Prime Minister. He insists on preparing her for Sir Robert Peel by attempting to persuade her to like the odious man (which she _does not_ ) but he never says a word about what it will be like when they can no longer be together so often.

She does not see why they cannot continue to see each other daily, for everyone knows Lord M is her greatest friend, but she knows deep down that he will not see it that way, that he will insist on proper behaviour and force the two of them to act as almost strangers no matter how much it hurts them.

Sometimes, she thinks, her Lord M is entirely _too_ noble.

* * *

The inevitable day arrives, that sad day she has been dreading for so long.

Lord M is going to resign. The Tories and Sir Robert Peel will now lead the government.

* * *

He comes to the palace earlier than usual for a more informal discussion about what she has long been dreading. She manages to hold her countenance for only a few minutes before she begins to plead with him to reconsider. But it is to no avail, for in this she discovers he is quite determined.

"We must be dignified," he tells her when she asks why he will not fight to stay, "we cannot have a repeat of what went on before. There is no other option, Ma'am."

He spends all afternoon trying to assuage her fears and indignation about Peel and Tory spies coming into her household. He is the perfect Prime Minister in giving her sound advice in a kind manner even when it is not what she wants to hear.

And then he holds her. For a long time and with his arms wrapped securely around her while he presses gentle kisses onto her head.

He stays for dinner and does not say a word when she cannot quite bring herself to show the gaiety and pleasure she usually exhibits when he dines at the palace.

And now she lies in bed unable to sleep.

Tomorrow Lord M will meet her to formally resign as her Prime Minister and start the process that will result in his loss and that of the ladies she is closest to.

He sleeps only a few rooms away from her, having accepted her invitation to stay the night with none of his regular hesitance (he is always so concerned for propriety and her reputation).

He is close and she finds she cannot sleep. He is close and she is lonely. He is close and she is full of sorrow.

Tomorrow everything will change.

But for now he is so very near and she wishes to go to him.

So she does.

* * *

He wakes to the feeling of an unexpected weight on the other side of his bed and has to blink a few times before he fully comprehends who is now perched next to him.

The Queen in a thin white nightgown that highlights the curves of her body in a way that would be exceptionally distracting were he not too busy being alarmed by her presence.

"Please let me stay," she says softly, clearly anticipating that he will try and persuade her to go back to her own room.

This is not just the threat of being caught standing a bit too close or kissing or holding hands, though. This could result in ruination of a much more serious kind.

"Victoria," he beseeches her with a single word, using her name rather than her title.

"Just for tonight," she pleads, "I just want to lie next to you for tonight, before everything changes."

Can he deny her?

He feels the upcoming separation as desperately as she does. And he finds it so very hard right now to send her away when he does not know the next time they will be able to meet privately.

He wants to do what is right but he does not know what exactly that is. His head says that the Queen should leave but his heart tells him that the best thing he can do for both of them now is to have this one night with her in his arms.

She senses his hesitation and with the determination that he often admires she takes matters into her own hands.

She slips under the covers, presses herself against his side and lets her bare feet tangle around his legs. She wraps her arms around his chest and he can feel her warm breath tickle his skin.

He contemplates his options. All the ways he could make her leave the room and prevent the potential for scandal.

In the end, though, he cannot do it.

Instead he settles his own hands – almost trembling – onto her waist, presses his lips to the crown of her head and enjoys the gift of this intimacy with her.

* * *

He barely sleeps, always listening for a single sound that might indicate someone who could come across the scandalous scene they make together.

When the first cracks of dawn arrive he is exhausted but still ever-watchful.

He wakes her gently, nudges her out of bed despite his dislike of being separated from her, and tells her to hurry back to her room before someone realises she is gone.

As the noise of her footsteps becomes fainter he falls back into a more restful sleep.

She is the only thing he dreams of.

* * *

She accepts his resignation with dignity and a serene countenance that only the two of them know masks a sadness she can scarcely contain.

She accepts Sir Robert Peel with a coolness that is noticeable but a politeness that shows there will not be second Bedchamber Crisis.

And life goes on.

* * *

She admits (later and only to dear William, who does not judge) that she does not make Sir Robert Peel's first months in office at all pleasant.

She resents him for being the reason she has lost her dearly beloved first Prime Minister and the ladies she has been closest to. He irritates her with his lack of proper manners and by how different (and not in a good way) he is from charming, witty and reassuring William.

She is cold and imperious and spends those first months never letting him forget that he is not _her_ choice, that he has quite spoiled her happiness.

Her behaviour does not help the rumours that persist, though at the time she does not at all care, miserable as she is.

She has seen William only a handful of times since Peel became Prime Minister (a conspiracy, she is sure, orchestrated by her mama and uncle Leopold) and during those happy meetings they get precious little time alone – it is not like before, when they could be comfortably alone for hours at a time while discussing her boxes and state business, for now there are always others around ruining the moments they snatch together.

They write letters, pages long and accompanied by dried flowers from him and sketches from her. But they have to stifle their feelings even in these – he insists on it for safety despite the letters being passed back and forth personally through the kind and discrete offices of Emma Portman.

Through it all she clings to the memory of all the time they've had together, and of that night in his room.

Of how it felt to have him lying next to her, of the delight she felt in curling up against his warmth with his arm around her waist. She remembers their kisses and conversations and laughter, his unwavering support and the way he has always made her feel strong and capable in a world where it seems like everyone is waiting for her to fail.

* * *

He is no longer Prime Minister. He is still, technically, the leader of his party but that is something easily amended. He is not the man to lead the Whigs, not anymore. The world is changing fast and his own distrust of the industrialism that is sweeping across the country will not stop it from continuing.

He was a Prime Minister for a very specific set of circumstances, an unlikely candidate chosen partly as a lesser evil, partly as a man who could get along fairly well with most of the House, and perhaps a little for his own abilities (he hopes). It is not the sort of situation that will ever be repeated in his lifetime.

And he is tired of mediating between men who get more unruly every day. He just wants to rest and read and contemplate those delightful days when he was in the Queen's presence almost every day, when they were so happy.

He thinks he will resign, for it is far better to leave now than be pushed. The only downside is that his resignation as leader of the opposition will reduce even further the chances he has to meet with the Queen.

But he will not stay. Politics holds so little interest for him now he has parted with the Queen. He wants to bury himself in his library at Brocket Hall and forget the fact that the brightest part of his life is behind him.

* * *

It is August 1842 and a year has gone by since William ceased to be her Prime Minister.

She is twenty-three years old now and there is mounting pressure for her to marry and produce an heir to the throne – few in the country, even among those who do not believe a woman capable of ruling, want her uncle Cumberland to rule if something should happen to her.

She wants to do her duty. She wants to be a good Queen. But she does not think she can marry a man she does not love and spend the rest of her life smiling and pretending that she does.

Perhaps it is a weakness. Maybe she needs to remember that queens are not made for happiness but for duty.

She cannot, though. In this she cannot wave and smile and never let them know she's afraid like dear William taught her to do.

There is a man she loves, a man she will gladly marry, with whom she will happily give England its heirs. If only …

If only it was not so hard, if only he would not keep trying to protect her, if only it would be accepted, if only she could love where she chose.

Too many ifs. She is sick of them.

She no longer has easy use of Emma's unmarked carriage. She will have to take her own, regardless of rumours that will surely fly.

She needs to go to Brocket Hall.

* * *

The butler directs her outside and towards the path she walked down on the day William broke her heart with his refusal.

Has it really been so long since then? Years of love and secrets, of closeness and then separation.

She hopes her visit now will have a better outcome.

William is as he was that day, sitting and watching the rooks with a contemplative look. He is almost identically dressed and as handsome as he ever was, changed only by an extra line or two on his face and a few more sprinklings of silver in his dark hair.

She is not incognito today. She does not want to hide, not anymore.

And she sees his eyes gaze at her clearly expensive dress and the lack of veil covering her face, sees his realisation that she has been quite open about her visit.

He stands abruptly at her arrival but he does not kneel and she does not want him to – here, with the two of them alone, it is not necessary, not wished for.

"Your Majesty, I was not expecting you."

"I believe they call this a surprise – a nice one, I hope."

"I am always pleased to see you, Ma'am."

She frowns. This is not what she wants. She does not want his courtesies and adherence to protocol. She wants him to be real with her.

She takes a step closer and then she sees it, hidden behind his mask of calm – a spark of emotion that tells her he is not unaffected by her presence.

"Brocket Hall is, of course, honoured. But it was unwise to come here alone, Ma'am. I do not want this visit to cause you any trouble with Sir Robert or your mother."

She has, reluctantly, begun to see some positive points to Sir Robert, but she does not at all care what he thinks about her visit to Brocket Hall – William is more to her than he will ever be. And as for her mama, who only wants to marry Victoria off to Albert and to control her, well mama has no say at all.

"I had to see you," she says, reaching out for his hand and smiling when he does not refuse her, "I have missed you."

"We met only three weeks ago at Buckingham Palace," he begins to reminds her, but then he falls silent.

It seems he, like her, knows that their meetings since his resignation as Prime Minister have been unsatisfactory to say the least.

"I have missed you too," he admits after a moment's hesitation, "but it is still dangerous for you to be here, Ma'am."

"Why do you call me that?" she cries, "you who know me better than anyone. There is no one else here."

"You are my Queen," he says.

"I am a woman too," she tells him, "and you used to call me by my name sometimes when we were alone. Why do you not say it now?"

He looks at her and there is a dark sorrow in his eyes that upsets her, "you must know why."

"No," she says indignantly, "I have no idea why. That is why I am asking."

He sighs, "one day you will marry, I think it is something you want no matter what you might say about ruling as Elizabeth did. It is something you deserve – true happiness, a family. And I do not want to hold you back from that."

"But that is why I have come," she explains, "I want a husband and a family … I want it with _you_."

His face crumples and she wonders for a moment if he is crying. But when he lifts his head she can see only a pained expression but no damp cheeks.

His hand drops hers but comes up to cup her cheek. Her breath hitches at the contact and she unconsciously leans towards him.

"I hope, I think, you know my feelings … that you know how I … how I wish things could be as we want them … yet I cannot ... I cannot let you throw away your life for me."

"Let me!" she shouts as his hand drops and he steps back, looking everywhere and anywhere but at her face, "I am the Queen of England and I am my own person no matter how the world might try to control me. I will do my duty but I _will_ marry for love."

Her fury has been aroused by his words. She loves him fiercely but his hesitance frustrates her. He is only trying to do what is right, to be noble and caring … but he does not see himself as he should, does not realise that she is better with him.

She hates that he denies himself the chance to be happy, that his determination to keep her safe from scandal and his experiences with his late wife have kept him mostly at arm's distance.

* * *

He is known as a man of easy temper, known for his laissez-faire approach and for the way he can calm the Queen's more intemperate outbursts.

But she can push him to the edge, this Queen he loves … Victoria.

She will not let him try his best to protect her reputation, will not accept that a marriage between them could rock the country to its very foundations.

Yet he sees the strength in her refusal to back down, understands the reasons behind her words.

He just cannot quite believe.

He loves her, of course, adores and admires her immensely. But he does not quite understand why she returns his feelings, why she chooses him over princes and dukes.

He knows her sincerity, though, can feel it every time she takes his hand or kisses him and see it in the unclouded delight in her eyes when they are together.

And as he looks at her expression – furious and pleading and hopeful all at once – he realises that maybe they have a chance.

He is a cynic who is probably far too old for her, a man with a scandalous and painful past that still haunts him. She is a Queen trying to prove herself as she stumbles past constant obstacles in a world that is never satisfied and always trying to trip her.

But together they are better, helping each other to improve without losing the fundamental parts that make them who they are.

He does not know what to do. Sense and rationality and honour tell him that he should keep his distance and be contented with friendship.

He knows Victoria, though, knows that now she has decided on her course she will not be moved from it.

It is all or nothing now. He has to choose.

Can he break her heart for a second time, even if it might be best in the long run?

Will she ever forgive him if he makes her leave?

Can he live with himself if he loses this last chance of happiness?

If he says yes to her, will it even be accepted by the government or will they be setting themselves up for a fall?

All these questions run through his head as he tries to work out what he should say.

He does not want to go. He wants to hold her close and never let go.

He lifts his head to look at her face.

To wake up every morning to Victoria, what a delight that would be.

He inhales, exhales loudly. Tries to calm his racing heart.

"All I have ever wanted is for you to be happy, Victoria."

He pauses a moment, runs a hand through his hair as he tries to find the right words.

"I am not good enough for you," he says as he lifts a hand to still the arguments forming on her lips, "I am a tired old man, probably a fool … but I do love you and if … if you love me too, if you believe that I can make you happy, then I swear I will spend every day trying my best to do so."

She smiles then and he is blinded by her radiance.

She closes the gap between them and kisses him and he is so happy.

This is bliss beyond compare.

He wraps his arms around her, lifts her off the ground to kiss her more fervently as he feels her lips lift into a wide smile against his own.

What they might look like to any of his servants who might spot them through the trees he does not know.

He does not care.

* * *

It is a scandal of course, one that is a main topic of English conversation for almost a full year and dragged up again at opportune moments for the rest of their lives.

There is uproar in Parliament and the Privy Council over the Queen's declaration that she will marry her former Prime Minister. Accusations of Whig conspiracy and clear political bias from the Queen, of a marriage beneath her dignity to a man with a more than murky past.

In the end, however, the Queen wins out. She exerts all her charm and dignity, every argument in the extensive arsenal that she and William combined possess.

There are stipulations of course. William will be a Duke but not a prince and _never_ a king. There will be no allowance, only the revenues that his hereditary title and his new dukedom bring him. There are more rules and contracts, arguments over precedence and regencies that take months to sort out.

In the end none of it matters to them.

Because in the end they are husband and wife. They have each other and soon enough they have a family to be adored by the people of England.

They have their happy ending.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.**


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